Aloha Mannequins

  We all set up in a cramped room with a very high roof. Pink, rubber ropes dangle. The amputees are tied to these ropes and they begin to bounce up and down immediately.

  “Hurray! Good!” they all go.

  I set up the camera, messing with the color balance. Mr. Snake comes in on his wheelchair while eating a brick of tofu in a pink bowl. He instructs everyone to hurry up toot sweet or else he’ll start raging. This seems to work, for I notice everyone picking up the pace and grumbling how much this job doesn’t pay as much as they thought it would and how much they would, and I quote, ‘love to stick that brick of tofu up Mr. Snake’s sweet sweet ass’.

  While the technicians prepare the other rubber ropes, the remaining amputees play on the carpet, entertaining all by sitting on their buttocks and sliding across the floor with their available limbs, racing one another and laughing – having a riot. The spectators bet and cheer them on as their naked flesh race for joy.

  Having finished his tofu, Mr. Snake holds his hands out and claps once, dramatically: A loud thunder crack.

  Everyone freezes.

  He says with a stern gaze:

  “Discipline!”

  Everyone jumps up and scurries around. The director claps again and they all get in position: The light techies stand behind their lights and soundboards; the rope techies tie the rubber ropes to the amputees’ hips; the actors and extras get in place, staring at the floor. The director nods and grunts, “Hmph! So extraordinary.”

  People exhale a sigh of relief.

  Someone lets loose gas.

  Shhh.

  This is important.

  Mr. Snake says Action and directs:

  “Cue bounciness!”

  The technicians lift the amputees higher and higher. They bounce up and down on the rubber ropes. Those with no legs are upside down, clapping their hands.

  “Cue sex people!”

  What I see next makes me wonder.

  An obese woman, wearing a black, shiny, plastic suit and a red gasmask, guides in a naked, black couple that I have not seen before. This strange, enchanting woman holds their hands, petting their hair. The fat woman’s suit squeaks as she strolls.

  The couple seems afraid. The woman lets them go and they hold each other. They sit on the bed and the large guide walks away, whistling a foreboding tune. I notice that her monster buttocks are spilling from her horror-suit. No one seems to care. What’s going to happen now?

  Odd. I hear chanting. Where is it coming from?

  A 16-year-old girl next to me, holding a large electrical cord that’s 12 inches thick and 3 inches long, is shaking all over. Something is stank. What is it? I need to know or else it’ll drive me sideways. Maybe it’s a gaggle of roaches. Cockroaches break wind every 15 minutes.

  Mr. Snake instructs the black couple to start kissing and to touch each other in a sexy way: They do, faces uncertain, eyes so scared – wide, staring into the camera. Mr. Snake says, “Sweet, Jesus! Don’t look into the camera! Are you professional or not? You want me to break these lights for some reason?! You and I are done, man, professionally. But let’s keep going anyway. ACTION!”

  They make love as the amputees dangle above them, spinning and flapping like bizarre birds.

  The actors lose concentration and stare up at them. Mr. Snake makes a scary face and the actors begin to cry. They look for a blanket to hide under, but find nothing but a silver shield – like something King Arthur would use.

  Golden words on the shield read: King Arthur’s.

  Mr. Snake shrieks out, “And with a blast from his mighty nostrils!” and the technicians let go of the ropes. All the amputees fall through the air, shrilling and pulling at their hair. Then the techies grab onto the ropes. The amputees stop dead-air and BOUNCY BOUNCE like rag dolls – their limps flopping here and there. They make strange drowning sounds.

  Mr. Snake gives the techies the signal (he brings his hands up and masturbates his neck) and they yank on the rubber ropes over and over. The amputees bounce in the air, some touching the bed, some twirling around & around like a merry-go-round.

  They appear to be laughing.

  Mr. Snake points to the black couple in a violent manner: With tiny jabs, his face torn, eyes huge with impatience. He shoves his hands into his mouth, happy.

  The actors nod and clap.

  Mr. Snake shakes his head.

  “Sex her!”

  He throws money at them: “A total of $20,” says an idiot savant, standing next to me. “In coins.”

  Mr. Snake points at all the shiny coins.

  “That’s your motivation, fool!”

  The actors kiss each other in a sloppy way – eyes crazy and staring at the bouncing feet and arms around them. They are kicked and slapped in the head, accidentally, yet keep acting. Mr. Snake nods in approval.

  “They are professional.”

  An unidentified man behind a hanging blanket pulls on a large lever…and fantastic flowers fall all around the scene.

  I’m happy with my color balance: Everything that’s red – including the flowers – is bright and radiant.

  The same shadow-figure behind the blanket pulls down on a thick rope above his head. Glorious God music plays from some mysterious place: A large chorus full of faith and energy.

  “Lalalala! Hallelujah! Amen!”

  There are gay trumpets and deafening drums and mean saxophones.

  “Rhythm sex!” says the director to the actors.

  The shadow behind the blanket wall now picks up a microphone and clears his throat through the annoying feedback. He says, defiantly:

  “All hail Jay-zus! Allow his mighty ways to cut through your soul like the Flaming Sword of all that is Good and Holy!”

  The actors on the bed make fast love – both making fake sounds of intense pleasure & pain. There is also some fake screaming. In a Hallmark moment, the male actor holds the female in his arms and smiles and gently massages his hand into her vagina, going all the way up to his elbow. He says, “I can feel intestine.” The female repays him by widening his penis slit with pliers and pushing a long hairpin into his hard shaft.

  She says to him, “They do this in the Middle East.”

  “Oh come now, that’s so wonderful.”

  She masturbates him while the preacher preaches.

  “Ye who urinates in the house of God shall have the Satan Penis nibbled off with many rabbit and rabid bites; and the bits shall be distributed amongst the kings and queens of the world and outer planets and they must all swallow the Penis bits while crying for they must be ashamed – it is a must! For the Lord our God enjoys to watch all weep and ask for his mercy for he is not only a sadist but he is also insecure. Woe woe woe his sad sad ways. LOL. Amen…and Awomen. The end.”

  The man slaps the woman’s hands from his penis. He yanks at his hair as sperm fly out in strange chunks and splat against the wall. “This is not professional!” he says, throwing fistfuls of his hair at the bouncing amputees.

  The technicians yank and yank yank yank yank on the rubber ropes, looking to the director and waiting for him to say Okay enough. But Mr. Snake doesn’t say that.

  He watches, eating another large brick of tofu from his messy hands – eating like a horse – his mouth going down and munching.

  He doesn’t care if tofu gets into his nose.

  I find that most disturbing.

  The couple stares in fright as the man’s penis shakes like something weird and machineguns more white stuff. The woman cries out to Jesus.

  “My contacts! They hurt me! It’s like when I’m driving and dirt gets in them!”

  She stands on the bed and jumps up and down, hands covering her eyes. She gives a MIGHTY jump and flies over the room with a “Blahhhhhh!” She tucks and rolls across the floor, straight into the bathroom where she slides into the toilet. The door slams shut behind her, somehow.

  The man complains, “Not my mess! Not my mess!” He runs to the bathroom and pounds on
the door. “I love you! Not my mess, I says!”

  Mr. Snake points at me, then to the bathroom. I understand and point the camera at the actors and their drama.

  Is this all scripted?

  Because I’m sweating.

  Mr. Snake looks to the technicians and gives them the signal to stop yanking it.

  And so they stop, breathless.

  The amputees fall onto the bed and bounce into the air and then land on the floor. They rest for 5 seconds, dead-looking, their limbs tangled over limbs, and then rise as if nothing has happened. They stand around the monitors, analyzing the shot while scratching their itchy, naked parts. One amputee, with no legs, appears to have a rash. She scratches at her neck furiously, to the point where she pops a vein and blood streams into the air, sparkling under the hot lights.

  A female teenager screams out in disgust and collapses, then stands right back up and vomits into her hands. She looks down on her filth and says, “What have I become, what have I become?”

  She collapses and doesn’t get back up.

  Two female-coworkers pick her up and carry her on their shoulders, like a log, and march off toward a room.

  “HUT HUT HUT HUT HUT HUT,” they chant.

  The women lock the door behind them. There are the curious sounds of a drill, ice cracking, and giggling.

  I want to see what’s going on in there, but something in my stomach says, Please don’t do that to me.

  The black man, standing naked at the bathroom door, gets down on his hands and knees and peeks under the door, his buttocks kissing sky. As I fear, Mr. Snake wheels his way next to me and tugs on my arm, then whispers into my ear something horrific.

  “For the love of all that is good…get a close up.”

  I exhale, depressingly, and do as told.

  I put my hand to my mouth, trying to hold down the acidic vomit that’s rising and settling in my throat. Dear God, it burns so bad.

  Mr. Snake massages the area between his thighs. He sees that I see him and puts his hand down. He smiles at me, waving, but I don’t smile back.

  From under the door, the bathroom lights click off.

  The door creeks open.

  All is silent.

  It’s dark inside.

  The naked man steps inside, tippy-toeing.

  HIS NAKED WIFE JUMPS OUT FROM BEHIND THE DARKNESS AND HITS HIM OVER THE HEAD WITH THE HEAVY LID THAT COVERS A TOILET’S INNER-WORKINGS.

  She runs to the door and opens her mouth, wiggling her tongue at us and yelling “Blahhhh!” and making devil horns. She SLAMS the door shut.

  We all listen.

  Something is being torn.

  Then it sounds like she’s eating something.

  I remember Mr. Snake looking up to me and saying:

  “Eating something?”

  He then eats his nails, scared.

  The men in film crew walk outside – some of them bow their heads as they leave, while many kick invisible trash. The women stay, out of concern.

  From the bottom of the door, the lights flick on and off in a lunatic fashion.

  Mr. Snake looks up to me.

  “Broken light now?”

  He bites his nails.

  THE SOUND OF A WINDOW CRASHING.

  I run to the door – camera still rolling on the tripod – and kick down the door. The entire room gasps!

  The bathroom is empty.

  The window has indeed been smashed to tiny bits.

  Feet run behind me.

  I hop over the tub and peek outside the window, expecting to see the woman running into the woods, meat jiggling.

  But nay.

  Nothing.

  Just darkness.

  And loud crickets.

  I look down into the tub and see the naked black man. His tongue lolls out from a jagged hole in his cheek, and his stomach has been eaten out. His weewee is covered by a strange family of clear bubbles.

  Eyes open, he gives a sharp yelp, followed by many short, sharp yelps (I zoom in on his face as he does this). The women try to stop his foolishness by punching him on the face and biting his feet, but it is no good. He is far gone.

  Mr. Snake golf claps.

  “Cut!”

  I don’t remember much after that. Runaway images of alcohol…and praying to a giant tree…and flying on a swing. Now I’m waking up on the roof alone with a pillow and blanket, staring at the moon and smoking a roll’em up cigarette that I proudly made.

  Over the black hills I see the blue & red rainbow of police lights. They are speeding down to the house. (Did all of that stuff really happen? Good God.)

  I run back inside to tell the others, but they already know about it. Appropriate, fast-drumming, Middle Eastern music plays from a room, LOUD. Everyone is in a panic – running here and there and nowhere. The amputees are lifted and thrown out a window, where people outside hold a mattress, awaiting their fall.

  I make to slide my shoes on and find worms inside.

  What the fuck, right?

  Dumping them out, I put my shoes on and turn around and see:

  A baby girl is crying on the floor.

  I pick her up, due to bad memories, and run around, asking speeding faces about her parental unit. No one stops to listen. I manage to actually stop a few people, but they all seem to do a kind of panicky dance, running in place and flapping hands. This blasted kid is screaming in my ear now, but I keep my cool.

  A Middle Eastern woman runs past me and snatches the baby away. Must be the mum – seeing how the baby stopped crying.

  Polly takes my hand and we climb over the kitchen sink and jump out the window and bounce off the mattress.

  We run into the van and zippidy dooda away.

  I look behind us and see all the police cars in the tiny distance, parking at the house, kicking up clouds of dust that swirl in the headlights.

  I notice something in the attic that frightens me.

  Someone is standing behind the window: A still shadow behind licking flames.

  I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

  Why can’t I look away?

  I FIND MYSELF frustrated by my old school chums. As for my current “friends”: It’s been a few weeks since I last saw Polly and Mr. Snake and the amputees. I’m lonely and again have my eyes on a girl that I enjoy being around. Unfortunately, my friends are prejudice to where she hangs out, and because I’m afraid of conflict of any kind, I don’t date her.

  I don’t want my pals mad at me.

  Sheesh.

  I’m giving up my happiness for them.

  I’m miserable! I can’t talk to them about it.

  Because all I’ll get is: I don’t care.

  Just be happy for me, guys.

  All I want to hear is, “GO for it. True, we don’t agree with your choice, and true she annoys us just in general, but you like her. She makes you happy, no? Yessm. GO for it. And if you happen to fall, we’ll pick you up.”

  But something tells me I’m not going to hear that. So I feel that I have to distance myself from them, and have. I find myself very interested in other things now, in doing many things, creating many things…just enjoying life, dammit.

  September 19th. It’s my birthday today. I turn 26. As I feared, none of my friends remember. I can understand if pals that I’ve only known for about a year don’t remember, but when it’s someone you knew since age 16…then it’s a tad sad.

  Uh oh…depression sets in.

  What am I going to do with them? Do they hate me now? Are they now starting to realize what an idiotic fool I really am?

  (points to self)

  Stop talking.

  Man up.

  Days later…

  After the death of Mr. Snake, and hours of silence, we find a beach to film the last scene on. The place is called China Man’s Hat because it looks like a china man’s hat. Or a witch’s hat, in my opinion.

  I throw out the option of filming during the day because it’ll
be a bitch bringing in lights, and on a beach of all places, where it’s hard to run, let alone walk. And since I’m the director, Polly and all the tech-heads agree. None of them argue with me or anything. It’s amazing. I’m getting my ass kissed and not handed to me and it fells a little good, and tingly. Power is interesting, and like a great poet once said, “With great power, comes great responsibility.”

  That’s from Spiderman.

  I try my best not to let it get to me. I have a job to do. Time to grow up. People are depending on you!

  Speaking of Spiderman, or in this case, Spider-Man, the movie was directed by one of my favorite directors, Sam Raimi (The Quick & The Dead, Darkman, A Simple Plan), who also revolutionized the horror genre with his film The Evil Dead, starring the funniest actor in the whole wide world, Mr. Bruce Campbell. And I stress on Camp.

  Haha.

  My all time favorite director is David Lynch. His films aren’t movies so much as they’re moving paintings with sound. If you don’t like looking at paintings, though, then stay away from his films – like Lost Highway or Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me – because you will fall asleep.

  Earlier…

  Polly drives me to the set and on our way I start to get the monkeys. A fight is in my stomach. What if no one listens to me? What if everyone LISTENS to me, but with empty eyes? What if I bend over to pick up a cute crab and my pants split. What if I start stuttering, badly, even more than I usually do? W-w-what if they look at me funny because it looks like a 16-year-old is giving them orders. Adults hate getting orders from kids because it’s embarrassing – although I really am 26 now.

  To ease my stupid, stupid brain, I keep my mind focused on one thing.

  Have FUN.

  Later…

  Everyone’s here, ready to go. I walk on the sand, barefoot, and pace back & forth, reading the scene. And this is what it says, seriously, word for word:

  EXT. BEACH – DAY

  Main character (lady) and man. Sex.

  THE END.

  I ask Polly if I can have the sex synopsis for this scene. Things will go a lot faster if we just follow what’s already written and not improvise, but she tells me that Mr. Snake urinated on all those pages because he thought the pages were laughing at him and then he burned the pages and then urinated on them and then ate the soggy ashes, just to show them who’s the boss.